


She Who Would

by theheadandthekin



Series: Where You Destroy [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Depiction of Self-Harm, Resurrection, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadandthekin/pseuds/theheadandthekin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Who Would

**Author's Note:**

> I'm petty. For as long as I can sustain it, for every story posted here that erases Abbie, I'm posting two drabbles that don't.

Jenny is angrier than she lets on.

She wants nothing to do with Crane. Nothing to do with her Dad. Nothing to do with the Apocalypse.

After a lifetime of monsters, after a lifetime of _faith_ _,_ she's done.

Totally fucking done.

She takes Joe's ashes to the cabin, heaves heavy sobs against her truck, climbs back in, and then keeps driving.

Across the Tappan Zee Bridge, then beyond.

West.

* * *

A day later, she's stopped in Toledo.

Ignoring the seventeen texts from Crane, she gets a new phone and a new number. It's morning; she has time.

The only contact she keeps is Frank.

Everyone else can go to hell.

Literally, if she really had her way.

* * *

She first hears her sister's voice in the hotel in Chicago.

"We're free," Abbie says, and Jenny can hear the smile in her voice.

She wishes it were true.

And she wishes her sister were there. She wishes it so hard, in fact, she thinks she can see Abbie sitting on the bed, grinning and kicking her legs.

* * *

The asshole tracks her down when she's outside of Omaha. It's been a week, but she's taking her time.

"Fuck off, Crane."

"Miss Jenny, please."

The thing that gives her pause isn't his plaintive request. No, it's the fact that when she glances to the right to check her mirror, she sees a faint image of her sister--very much like a ghost, she reasons--sitting in the passenger seat.

Jenny's still looking, processing the way her otherworldly companion shakes her head, when she hears Crane again through the phone's speaker:

"I've been seeing your sister. I thought you should know. It could mean--"

She cuts him off. "Yeah, me too."

Abbie chuckles. Jenny hangs up before he can say anything else.

She's decided she--they?--owe him nothing.

But it's useful to know she's not going crazy alone.

* * *

Jenny pulls over in a gas station at the next exit.

Abbie's still with her. Sort of.

"You're _dead._ He let you _die._ " She doesn't know if she can talk to Ghost Abbie or not, but it's worth a shot.

"I know." Even if her body isn't really present, her voice is. "Both things. He wouldn't tell me, either, by the way."

"Chickenshit fucknoodle."

" _Still_ won't. Whatever. I'll handle him later. But I know you're wondering what I am, who I am, if I'm who you think I am. All the same questions I would have."

Jenny nods, tears in her eyes now, overwhelmed in a way she hadn't yet been by the loss of her sister. Her only real flesh and blood and bone.

Abbie explains, with the crisp detail reserved for someone trained as a cop, the bizarre metaphysics of her 'entrapment.'

"So you're dead and not-dead at the same time."

"More or less. Except to be definitely not-dead, I need my body back, but since I don't _have_ my body--thanks to the bullshit with the Box--I need your help with something a little, uh, grisly."

* * *

The fire on BLM land in Colorado flares almost to her shoulders, but seems tiny against the mountains rising from the basin.

All her life, Jenny heard people say they'd give up a _literal_ piece of themselves to get something else, like their right arm to be famous, or their eyeteeth to get a raise.

"Turns out it's an actual thing," Abbie muses.

"I _would_ give my right arm for you, you know."

The fire doesn't reflect in her sister's eyes. Not yet. "Luckily you don't have to. Are you sure you don't want to do a toe?"

Jenny presses the sharp edge of the knife against the base of her left pinkie finger. "It's a hell of a lot harder to cut off your own toes."

* * *

Flesh and blood and bone. A little fire. A little magic.

A boost or three from a source Abbie won't ever name, it's too sacred.

A lot of love.

Resurrecting Grace Abigail Mills, sister of Jennifer Mills, daughter of Lori Mills, granddaughter of granddaughter of granddaughter of Grace Dixon, and Witness Foretold is almost too easy.

For many hours beyond the casting of the spell, they do not speak. They simply cling to one another in the scrub as the fire burns itself out.

* * *

Even out here, her fucking phone keeps vibrating.

"Jenny." Her sister again rests her forehead against hers. The throb in her knuckle abates immediately. "We need to go back."

She nods and tries to laugh. "There's a war to fight. It's not over. What, five more to go?"

"You know it's more than that--always has been, always will be. _We_ are more than soldiers."

"Yeah."

Abbie draws back and gazes at the purple horizon--East--for a long time before turning again, the last embers of the fire flickering in her eyes.


End file.
